by W E Johns
“Why have you done this?” he demanded harshly, indicating the desert with a sweep of his arm.
At first Biggles did not understand. Then he saw the Touregs looking at the dead men and beasts that lay drying in the sun, and it needed no effort of the imagination to guess the cause of the natives’ belligerent attitude.
“We did not kill them,” he said quickly.
“You have put bombs in the sand,” accused the sheikh.
All was now plain. “These men who were killed were of your tribe?” queried Biggles.
“One was my son,” was the grim rejoinder. “My brother lost an arm, but was able to reach my tents. You fired at him with rifles as he ran across the sand.”
This was worse, much worse, than Biggles expected. He did not doubt that the chief spoke the truth, and he mentally cursed Gontermann for his foul work.
“We did not shoot, and we did not put bombs in the sand,” he asserted. “Not knowing that you knew of the bombs I ran out to warn you not to cross the sand. The men who did this evil thing are our enemies; we came here seeking them; that, O sheikh, is the truth, and the government at Cairo will bear witness.”
The Toureg’s hard expression did not change. “What does it matter who put the bombs? The faces of the men who did this thing were white, so they were of your tribe.”
Biggles realised the futility of trying to explain to the savage that all white men were not of the same “tribe.” “There are bad men, and good, in every tribe,” he said earnestly. “The men who put these bombs in the sand are outlaws, fleeing from justice. They tried to kill us, too, but we escaped.”
The sheikh was not impressed. “Where are your camels?”
“We have no camels,” answered Biggles.
“Then how did you get here?”
“We came through the air in one of the machines that fly.”
The sheikh drew in his breath with a hissing sound, and there was a note of triumph in his voice when he challenged. “The men who put the bombs came here in a flying-machine. You must be the same. Allah, the Merciful, has delivered you into our hands. We shall kill you. Go.” The chief pointed to the oasis.
“Wait!” cried Biggles. “I say again that the men who put the bombs in the sand were our enemies, enemies that we came here to seek. If you kill us they will go free, for you cannot follow them into the air. We are your friends, and to prove this I warn you that when you reach the oasis, keep away from the water, for there are more bombs in the sand around it. Stay away, too, from the large tent, where there are yet more bombs; but this, I swear, was not our doing.”
“What does it matter who did it?” returned the sheikh with primitive but deadly logic. “My son is slain. White men are all the same. They bring death to where there was only peace.”
Biggles looked at Ginger and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. I sympathise with these chaps. We can’t blame them for taking this line. Were we in their sandals we should probably feel the same way as they do about it.” To the sheikh he said, “Keep in the wadi; it is the only safe way.” And with that, followed by the rest, he walked back to the oasis.
Algy was waiting at the fringe, his right hand behind his back. Knowing that it held a pistol—he himself was unarmed—Biggles shook his head. “Put it away,” he said quietly. “If you show it it will only make matters worse. We can’t fight this bunch. Our only hope is to try to placate them by argument. They think we laid the mines—the sheikh’s son was killed by one.”
Algy returned the pistol to his pocket. “May the devil run away with that hound Gontermann,” he snarled. “One skunk like that undoes all the good our people do.” He joined the party, which proceeded to an open area among the palms, close to the water-hole.
There was nearly a nasty accident forthwith, for the camels strained to get to the water, and it was only with difficulty that they were held back. Biggles shouted, and pointed to the two mines which he had unearthed, as proof of his allegation that the pool was a death-trap.
“If you need water I’ll fetch it for you,” he offered. And he did, in fact, fill the Touregs’ leather buckets and water-skins, going to and fro through the narrow path he had cleared to escape from the pool. The natives watched him with cold, expressionless eyes.
When the camels had been watered and tethered the Touregs formed a rough circle in the clearing, and the sheikh addressed them in their own tongue. It was a long speech. No one interrupted. What he said, of course, the prisoners did not know, although it was obvious that their fate was being discussed. They sat together, watching, Biggles smoking a cigarette. The question of escape did not arise, for there was nowhere to go except into the desert, which offered only an alternative form of death. The Touregs were well aware of this and took no notice of them.
When the sheikh finished talking the others at once broke into a violent argument among themselves—or so it appeared.
“I wish I knew what was going on,” muttered Ginger.
“I think it’s pretty clear,” replied Biggles. “The sheikh has told the story of the mines, with all the gory details, after the manner of a judge summing up. He has now left it to his men to decide what shall be done with us. That’s the usual Arab way of doing things. The sheikh’s own opinion no doubt carries a good deal of weight, but with these wandering bands it isn’t final. A man is chosen as chief, but he only holds that position while the majority agree with him. The true Arabs refuse to be dictated to by anyone; they obey their chief as long as it suits them; but if they disagree with him they get over the difficulty by choosing another sheikh. The fact that these fellows are arguing is a good sign. It means that some of them, including the sheikh, I fancy, are against doing anything drastic in a hurry.”
At this point the sheikh came up to Biggles and asked, “Where is the machine that flies?”
Biggles stretched a finger towards the charred remains of the Mosquito. “Our enemies, your enemies, those who put the bombs in the sand, set fire to it and fled, leaving us to perish, as you may see for yourselves.”
The sheikh obviously repeated this information to his warriors, and it seemed to make a good impression. As Biggles had said, the point of his argument was there, on the sand, for all to see.
Biggles decided to follow up the ground he had gained. He addressed the sheikh. “If you kill us,” said he, “the bombs will remain in the sand for all time, and the oasis will be a place of death for every Arab who passes this way. Help us to cross the desert and we will return with soldiers who will clear away the bombs and make the place safe for man and beast. W’allah! It is for you to decide.”
The sheikh repeated this statement, again with good effect, for the advantages of the plan to the Arabs could hardly be denied. Only one or two of the warriors were irreconcilable, handling the hilts of their long-bladed knives in a manner that left no doubt as to the course they would have preferred. Nevertheless, they were a minority; the chief harangued them, and Biggles ventured to predict that everything would be all right.
And so it might have been but for a tragedy that overwhelmed all the good that had been gained by fair argument. One of the warriors, moved by some impulse known only to himself, strode towards the water-hole.
No one noticed him for a moment. Then Biggles caught sight of him out of the corner of his eye and let out a yell, but he was too late by a split second. The shout was lost in a deafening explosion that threw everyone flat. The man who had stepped on the mine lay where he had been flung, a horrid heap of quivering flesh. Another warrior was trying with his hands to stop blood that was spurting from his leg. Another clutched at his face, that had been torn open by a splinter.
Silence fell—a deadly, ominous silence.
“That, I’m afraid, has sunk us,” remarked Biggles evenly.
The Touregs, for a moment stricken dumb by shock, found their tongues in a howl of rage. There was no longer any talking, only savage muttering. All eyes were on the priso
ners. Knives swished from their leather sheaths. Only the sheikh stood aloof. The circle began to close in, not quickly, but slowly, as though there was some doubt as to who should strike the first blow.
“This is it,” said Algy, and drew his pistol.
“I object to being butchered like a sheep,” declared Ginger. He, too, drew his automatic.
The Touregs halted, tense, some half crouching, checked for the moment. The atmosphere was electric, like the lull before a storm.
CHAPTER XIV
BACK TO THE TRAIL
INTO this dramatic scene anti-climax arrived like a thunderbolt— although with less noise.
“Hi! Hi! Hi! there,” said a voice in a tone of gentle reproof. “You fellows mustn’t do that sort of thing, really, you know.”
Again silence fell. All movement stopped except at one place. Bertie, monocle in his eye, a cigarette between his lips, smiling a rather foolish, almost an apologetic grin, walked slowly into the scene as an actor steps on a stage from the wings. He tapped the ash off his cigarette. “Hallo everybody,” he greeted. “Sorry I’ve been away so long. It looks as if I’ve arrived in the jolly old nick of time—what?”
“You’ve arrived just in time to get your jolly old throat cut,” muttered Ginger.
Bertie stopped. “Really? I say, that’s too bad.”
“Don’t stand there looking like a fool,” grated Biggles. “There’s going to be a rough house.”
The Touregs stared at Bertie. They stared at Biggles. They stared at each other, dull amazement on their faces. Bertie’s miraculous arrival evidently upset them. It may have been the calm manner of it as much as the actual event. At any rate, shock took the sting out of them, if only temporarily. The sheikh spoke to Biggles, pointing at Bertie.
“Who is this man who wears a window in his face? Is he your friend, or an enemy?”
“A friend,” answered Biggles.
“Is he alone?”
It did not occur to Biggles that this could be otherwise, but he put the question to Bertie.
“Alone? No bally fear,” answered Bertie. “We’re quite a party. You wait and see. I walked on ahead.”
There came a sound of voices, and a moment later another actor appeared on this curious stage. It was Flying-Officer Collingwood, in uniform.
“What cheer,” he said casually. “What’s going on?” He glanced at the Touregs. “You’ve got company, I see.”
Before anyone could answer Sergeant Mahmud and his twelve Askaris appeared at the edge of thc clearing. They halted, and at a word of command, “ordered arms” smartly. The comical part of this was, that after a curt nod of greeting to the sheikh, Sergeant Mahmud took no further notice of the Touregs, who, suddenly confronted by this display of armed force, continued to stand and stare. One by one they sheathed their knives.
Biggles shared in their surprise. He, too, stared, mostly at the Askaris. “Bertie, where in heaven’s name did you pick up this army?” he asked in a dazed voice.
“Pick it up? I didn’t pick it up,” declared Bertie. “The Higher Command has sent them along to clear up these beastly mines.”
Biggles passed a hand over his eyes like a man who doubts his senses. “Where the deuce have you been?”
“Khartoum,” answered Bertie evenly.
Biggles started. “Where?”
“Khartoum. You know, the jolly little place on the Nile.”
“But that’s a thousand miles away.”
Bertie smiled wearily. “It seemed more like ten thousand to me—I’ve just been there and back.”
Biggles leaned limply against a palm. “I’m going crazy,” he muttered. “It must be the sun.”
“I wasn’t sure about the mines, so we parked our kites on the sand and walked in.”
“Kites?” queried Biggles. “Don’t tell me you’ve brought a squadron here?”
“No. Colly hoisted the black boys here in a Lanky.”
“Oh,” said Biggles.
The different parties on the oasis now began to sort themselves out. Naturally, the white men drifted together. The Askaris began forthwith to clear the mines away from the water-hole. The Touregs watched for a time, and then silently faded away into the desert that was their home, heading in single file towards the setting sun. Biggles had told the sheikh that in a few days the oasis would be safe.
Explanations followed. Biggles narrated briefly what had happened on the oasis, and Bertie, at greater length, told of his flight to Khartoum, and of his meeting there with Wilks.
“Bit of luck finding Wilks there,” observed Biggles. “He’s a good scout. I think you did quite right to follow the Renkells. What I’m most pleased about is your getting their compass course. If we follow that line it ought to take us to Gontermann’s base camp— that is, if he wasn’t laying a false trail, which in the circumstances seems unlikely. My map was burnt in the Mosquito, or I’d plot the course right away to see where it leads.”
He turned to Collingwood. “How long have you been in Upper Egypt?”
“Six months.”
“Ever hear of a place called Sanseviera?”
Colly shook his head. “Never—and I know most of the country round Khartoum. Of course, I haven’t been any great distance to the east, because we don’t patrol over Abyssinia.”
Biggles started. “Abyssinia! Of course! By thunder!— that’s the answer. Scaroni served in Abyssinia during the campaign. He probably knows every inch of the country. Abyssinia would be a central point for striking at the Persian Gulf, Kenya, and the Mediterranean. Scaroni had got another of his secret dumps there—buried the stuff, no doubt, to prevent it from falling into our hands when we pushed the Italians out. We’ll get along to Khartoum right away, and take up the trail again from there. Are you going to stay here with the Askaris, Collingwood?”
“No, my orders are to leave them here to clean up, and collect them in a day or two. I’m going back to Khartoum. There’s plenty of room for everybody in my Lanky.”
“Any objection to starting right away?”
Colly smiled. “I’d rather do that than sweat across this blistering desert tomorrow morning in the sun.”
“That’s fine,” declared Biggles. “Let’s get cracking. Bertie, you must be tired; you go in the Lanky and snatch a snooze. Algy, you’d better go with him. Ginger can come with me in the Spur.”
And so it was decided. Biggles made a tour with Sergeant Mahmud to show him the approximate position of the mines, and then, rejoining the others, they all walked up the wadi to the aircraft, which had been left some distance out, Bertie having landed at the spot from which he had taken off, and followed the instructions contained in the note, which he had found. Darkness was settling over the wilderness, so without further discussion they disposed themselves as arranged. The two machines then took off and set a course for Khartoum.
The flight was uneventful, and it was just eleven o’clock when they arrived over the aerodrome and received permission to land.
In a few minutes, at Station Headquarters, Biggles was shaking hands with Wilks. Algy and Ginger took part in the reunion, for they, too, knew the Group Captain, although he had not reached that high rank when they last saw him. Wilks had been expecting them and a late supper had been laid in the mess. While this was being enjoyed, and over the coffee that followed, Biggles took his old comrade into his full confidence. This was necessary, if only because his close co-operation would be required if the pursuit of the bandits was to be pushed on without loss of time.
“I heard about the affair of the Calpurnia,” said Wilks, when Biggles had finished. “In fact, Egypt is buzzing with it. They say there’s an unholy row over the loss of the rajah’s jewels.”
“So I imagine,” returned Biggles. “I shall have to get in touch with the Yard right away to let Raymond know that we’re doing something about it. He hasn’t the remotest idea of where we are or what we’re doing. I’ll bet he’s tearing his hair out in handfuls. That isn’t our fault;
things have happened too fast for me to keep him informed. I doubt if even he realised that this chase was going to take us half-way across the world. What are the chances of getting a cable through from here?”
“You can send a cable in the ordinary way from the post office,” answered Wilks. “But as this is something of a national matter, and confidential, I feel justified in sending a signal through, in code, to the Air Ministry, who will pass it on to Raymond.”
“That’s fine,” asserted Biggles. “The difficulty is to know how much to tell him. I think, as matters stand, all we can say is that we’re on the track, and expect results shortly. Another thing I must do is get a spare machine, a Mosquito if possible, from the aircraft park at Heliopolis. They have some there. If they say I can have one, perhaps you wouldn’t mind one of your lads flying Algy and Bertie up to fetch it?”
“Not in the least,” agreed Wilks. “But do you really expect results?”
“It all depends on how my two clues pan out,” replied Biggles. “The first is the compass course on which the Renkells were flying. That should give us the general line. We can plot it in the map room. The other is a place called Sanseviera—or something like that; Grindler happened to mention it in the course of conversation. By rights, it should be on the course the bandits were flying. Did you ever hear of a place of that name?”
Wilks shook his head. “Never—although there’s plenty of it not far from here. There’s a lot in the Sudd—you know, the swamp higher up the river.”
Biggles looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. A lot of what?”
“Sanseviera.”
Biggles stared. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about sanseviera.”
“Listen, old boy,” murmured Biggles, “I’m trying to remain calm. Will you please tell me, in plain, simple English, what is this sanseviera?”
“I mean the stuff that grows.”